Chapter 12 Let The Games Begin
Let The Games Begin
SYDNEY
It’s Saturday morning back at Maisie’s, and yesterday, I was mildly successful at talking Jonah down from his homicidal rage, although my arguments sound completely bizarro.
“Yes, Jonah, we’re actually fake-dating to save my career and make his dying grandmother happy.
And that kiss you walked in on? Yes, it was just practice. ”
He didn’t buy it because he has a brain cell. That kiss wasn’t fake. Not even close.
My lips still tingle from the memory of Brooks’ mouth on mine. And, sorry Stephanie Berger, but Brooks does not kiss like a rattlesnake, and he’s right—he is very skilled with his tongue.
The way his hands felt tangled in my hair. The sound he made—half grunt, half growl—when I raked my nails down his back. That was not the cautious, clinical exercise we’d planned. That was... combustion.
Chemistry.
Catastrophe.
The en-suite bathroom door that connects to Brooks’ bedroom opens, and I whirl around so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.
Brooks steps out looking frustratingly attractive with his hair wet from the shower.
He’s fully dressed, which he clearly did himself, and I have to fight back the urge to tell him not to do that because it hurts him.
He takes one look at me and says, “You’re still torn up. Jonah?”
“Yeah.” I bite my lip.
“He might get why we’re doing it—soon.” He moves his arm, wincing.
“I hope so—and before he hires a hitman. But what about that kiss—?”
“We need to get going,” he interrupts. “Don’t want to be late for our big debut.”
And just like that, we’re not talking about the kiss.
Fine by me. I have enough to worry about with our first sports broadcast looming.
Whatever temporary thing possessed us can be filed away under “Items We Will Never Discuss,” right next to the time I drunkenly admitted I found his hockey thighs “stunningly unfair” at Jonah’s twenty-first birthday party.
I grab my bag, thinking about how my brother’s anger seems overblown, honestly. Brooks and I are grownups now—and I can handle myself.
Brooks holds the door open for me, a surprising gesture of chivalry from the guy who once filled my sneakers with maple syrup, and we’re off.
My stomach pretzels as we speed toward Boise, and it’s not just about my brother’s wrath—it’s the highway stretching before us like a nightmare I’ve been avoiding for six months.
“You okay?” Brooks’ eyes flick between me and the road. His hands rest easy on the steering wheel, like driving seventy miles per hour is as natural as breathing. Must be nice.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
A green highway sign for Boise looms ahead—twelve miles to go—and my chest tightens. I close my eyes and try to focus on my breathing, but all I can hear is the squeal of tires, the crunch of metal, the silence that followed.
“Sydney?” Brooks’ voice cuts through the rising panic. “Hey, look at me.”
I open my eyes to find him glancing at me with genuine concern. “I’m okay,” I insist, though I’m white-knuckling the door handle.
“No, you’re not. Is it the highway? Since the accident?”
I nod, not trusting my voice. How does he know?
“Jonah mentioned it.” Brooks answers my unspoken question. “Said you haven’t driven on highways since that night.”
“I hate that he told you that.” The words come out sharper than intended. “I’m handling it.”
“We all have our shit, Syd.”
The gentleness in his tone makes my throat tight. This is a side of Brooks I’m still getting used to.
“It was raining.” The words tumble out. “That night. I couldn’t see the deer until it was right there, and then...” I swallow hard. “The car flipped three times. They had to cut me out.”
Brooks is quiet for a long moment. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”
“It wasn’t,” I say automatically. “I walked away with just a concussion and some cuts. It could have been so much worse.”
“But it still fucked you up.” It’s not a question.
I stare out the window at the passing landscape, fields giving way to suburbs as we approach Boise. “Yeah,” I admit finally. “It still fucked me up.”
We lapse into silence as Boise’s skyline appears in the distance.
The closer we get to the arena, the more my anxiety about the highway fades, replaced by a different kind of nervousness.
This broadcast is everything I’ve worked for—my shot at proving I belong behind the sports desk, not just reporting on unseasonable snow flurries.
And so much of this hinges on Brooks being more charming on camera than he is in real life, which feels like asking a cactus to be cuddly.
“What if you freeze up?” I blurt out, the fear finally boiling over.
Brooks takes the exit toward the arena. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“I’m serious! What if you grunt and glare at the camera?”
“I don’t grunt and glare,” he says, then grunts in annoyance.
“You just did it.” I throw up my hands. “Oh god, I’m so getting fired.”
“Relax.” He pulls into the VIP parking lot of The Boise Arena. “I know how to talk about hockey. I’ve done hundreds of interviews.”
“Being interviewed isn’t the same as being the broadcaster. You need to be engaging, insightful… smile occasionally.”
“Syd. I got this.”
Inside, the Boise Hockey Arena buzzes with pre-game energy as we make our way inside.
Fans stream past us in team jerseys and face paint, the air thick with the scent of beer, hot dogs, and anticipation.
I flash our press credentials to security, leading Brooks through the labyrinth of corridors toward the broadcasting booth.
“You good?” I notice his sudden silence as we pass the locker rooms.
“Just weird.” His voice is tight. “Being here and not playing.”
I follow his gaze to where geared-up players head toward the ice, sticks in hand, faces set with focus.
For the first time, I realize what this must be like for him—only watching the game that’s been his entire life since childhood.
I’ve been so wrapped up in my own fears that I’ve barely thought about what Brooks might be going through.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “It must be hard being on this side of things.”
He looks surprised, then shrugs his good shoulder. “It is what it is.”
Marcus spots us as we head to the booth, his face lighting up. “There they are. Beaver County’s hottest power couple!”
I smile, hyperaware of Brooks beside me. “Hey, Marcus. Kermit, good to see you.”
Kermit nods. “Ready for the big leagues, Holt?”
“Born ready,” I say with more confidence than I feel.
Marcus claps Brooks on his good shoulder. “And our secret weapon. The King himself, ready to give us the inside scoop.”
Brooks smiles politely.
“We’re live in twenty.” Marcus checks his watch. “Booth is all set up, monitors are working. Just remember, keep it light, keep it fun, and Sydney?” He gives me a pointed look. “No references to beaver mating habits this time, okay?”
“I’ll try.”
We settle into our seats in the booth overlooking the pristine ice below. Players are emerging for warm-ups, the crowd cheering. I adjust my microphone, check my notes one last time, and try to ignore the butterflies performing extreme sports in my stomach.
“Five minutes.” Kermit positions the camera.
I glance at Brooks, who’s staring down at the ice. “Last chance to back out,” I say, only half-joking.
“Nope. We’re in this together, Holt.”
The words send an unexpected warmth through me. We’re in this together. It’s just part of our charade, I remind myself. None of this is real.
“Thirty seconds!” Kermit announces.
I straighten my blazer, Brooks nods, and then the red light on the camera blinks on.
“Good evening, sports fans! I’m Sydney Holt, coming to you live from The Boise Arena where the Trout are about to face off against the Seattle Seals in their season opener.
” My voice comes out steady, professional.
“I’m joined tonight by a very special guest commentator, Brooks Kingston of the Trout, who’s here to give us the inside scoop on tonight’s matchup. ”
I turn to him. “Brooks, the Trout have had an impressive pre-season, but Seattle’s defense is looking tough. What are you expecting from tonight’s game?” I brace myself for a monosyllabic response.
But Brooks Kingston transforms before my eyes. His face lights up, his posture changes, and he launches into an analysis so smooth and engaging that I nearly forget to nod at the appropriate moments.
“Seattle’s been focusing on their blue line, bringing in Weber from Toronto and promoting Andrews from their farm team, but I think Boise has the edge in speed and creativity,” he says, gesturing toward the ice where players are completing warm-ups.
“Watch number twenty-seven, Traye Jenkins. He’s got the kind of hands that can thread a puck through a keyhole, and Seattle’s defensemen tend to overcommit on the forecheck. ”
I stare at him, momentarily stunned by this articulate, charismatic version of Brooks. Where has this guy been hiding? And why is this so damn attractive?
“That’s... a great point,” I recover, seamlessly picking up the thread. “Jenkins’s pre-season stats have been impressive, with twelve points in just six games. Do you think Coach Barrymore will give him more ice time tonight?”
Brooks nods, leaning forward. “Absolutely. Barrymore recognizes talent when he sees it—he’s the kind of coach who rewards performance over seniority. I wouldn’t be surprised to see Jenkins on the power play, especially given how Seattle’s penalty kill struggled in their exhibition games.”
We continue this back-and-forth until the teams’ starting lineups are announced.
Brooks offers insights that only someone who’s played at the highest level could provide, pointing out subtle strategies and player tendencies that I would have missed.
I counter with statistics and historical context, and together, we paint a complete picture of the game that’s about to unfold.
By the time the puck drops for the first period, I’m no longer worried about Brooks embarrassing me on air.
Instead, I’m working to keep up with him, to match his energy and insight with my own.
It’s exhilarating in a way I didn’t expect—I’ve never had a co-broadcaster who’s anticipated my every move like this.
The game itself is electric, with Boise taking an early lead before Seattle ties it up in the second period.
Brooks’ predictions prove accurate, from Jenkins’s stunning assist on the power play to Seattle’s defensive breakdowns.
During commercial breaks, we exchange notes and observations, building on each other’s points when we’re back on air.
“And that’s a perfect example of what Kingston was talking about earlier,” I say after a particularly beautiful play by Boise. “Seattle’s defensemen overcommitting, leaving that lane wide open for Captain McDavid to exploit.”
Brooks nods, his eyes bright. “Exactly. That’s hockey IQ right there—McDavid recognized the pattern and capitalized on it. That’s something you can’t teach.”
I’m struck by how natural this feels. It reminds me of watching hockey with Jonah when we were kids, both of us shouting at the TV, breaking down plays, celebrating goals. But there’s something different about doing it with Brooks—a tension, an awareness that wasn’t there with my brother.
As the third period winds down, Boise clings to a one-goal lead, the arena pulsing with nervous energy.
Seattle pulls their goalie for an extra attacker, and for sixty heart-stopping seconds, it seems like they might tie it up.
But then Traye Jenkins intercepts a pass and scores an empty-netter, sealing the victory as the crowd erupts.
“And that’s it!” I exclaim as the final horn sounds. “The Boise Trout start their season with a decisive 4-2 win over Seattle. A great sign for what’s ahead.”
“If they keep playing like this, they’re definitely play-off contenders.” Brooks’ voice is pure enthusiasm.
“Brooks Kingston, thank you for your expert analysis.” Then I ask him what Marcus told me to ask. “Will you be joining us for future broadcasts?”
His eyes meet mine, something warm passing between us. “Count on it. Until I’m back on the ice, there’s nowhere I’d rather be than right here.”
The question was canned, but his sincerity catches me off guard, and for a moment, I forget we’re on camera, that this is part of our charade. It feels real—too real.
“And there you have it, sports fans,” I say, recovering quickly. “I’m Sydney Holt with Brooks Kingston, signing off from Boise. Join us next week for more hockey action as the season kicks into high gear.”
The red light blinks off, and Kermit gives us a thumbs up from behind the camera. “That was gold, you two! Pure gold!”
Marcus appears beside us, vibrating with excitement. “The phones are already ringing off the hook! Viewers love you guys together. The chemistry, the banter—it’s exactly what I was hoping for!”
Brooks and I exchange glances, and a blush creeps up my neck. “Thanks, Marcus, Kermit.” I gather my notes. “We had a good time.”
“Good? It was fantastic!” Marcus claps his hands together. “This’ll boost our ratings through the roof. The relationship leak from this morning has already been picked up by the major gossip sites. The King and the Sports Queen, together on and off camera.”
I wince at the nickname, but Brooks manages to sound sincere when he says, “Glad it worked out.”
As we make our way out of the arena, I say, “That was...” I trail off, not sure how to finish the sentence.
“Not bad.” A smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “For a weather girl.”
“And you were almost human.” I nudge him with my elbow. “Who knew?”
Once we’re in the SUV, the weight of the past couple of days settles over me—the Jonah mess, the successful broadcast, and most confusing of all, the lingering memory of that kiss and the strange chemistry we found on air.
I’ve spent years convincing myself that Brooks Kingston is an egotistical jerk who’s impossible to like, let alone love.
But the last few days have cracked that certainty, revealing glimpses of someone I’m not sure I ever really knew.
And that terrifies me more than any fake relationship ever could. Because pretending to fall for Brooks Kingston is one thing. Actually falling for him? That would be the biggest disaster of all.